This is my official first blog post. While I have sent out newsletters on yahoo groups, posted notes in Facebook & even set up a website (now defunct), this is my first foray into the blogosphere. Tweeting just seems to succinct for me; I prefer to write like I walk. While I am capable of getting on the treadmill & cranking out a few miles; when I say I am going for a walk it means that I meander around the lake, taking note of the birds, saying hi to dogs on leashes, smelling flowers and stopping to listen to the dragonfly hovering nearby.

I write because it is as compelling as eating, breathing, and sleeping, as if it is another bodily function. I write because to keep this inside me sometimes feels as uncomfortable painful if I am holding in my bladder. I once went 18 months without sex, yet my writing woke me up at 4 am for a year and wouldn’t go back to sleep till it poured out into a notebook. I jot down my dreams, cry over artist pages, journal, keep lists, post to fb, scribble on scraps of paper, memo it on my phone or compose papers daily, if nothing else to write about my love for the thick thirsty paper & having the juicy black pen. To deny the muse is to deny my soul.

I write because I have to.

I share my writings sometimes, not from ego or to earn my bread but to understand and to be understood, to share the struggles and triumphs over life, and to whisper to the others around me “we are not alone.”

These days I am journaling a lot on the concept of spiritual authority. Over the centuries folks have looked to priests & elders to define one’s connection with God, direct conversation was discouraged, it was taught that an intermediary was required for spiritual intersession.

It really has been over the past forty years or so that individuals have taken God into their own hands, choosing titles beyond the word God – Goddess, Higher Power, Spirit Divine, Infinite One and The Universe are some terms I have heard. There has been a saying floating around for a decade or two “Spiritual not Religious”. It is about creating our own connection with the Divine. There has been an evolution from the 90’s when many of us sat in 12 step meetings with the 11th step: “Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, as we understood Him”. I’m quoting now, I don’t necessarily use the male pronoun for God, but that is another post.

Much of what I will be exploring will be everyday acts of grace and how we marry the mundane with the profane. How simple acts such as weeding can take me to the a deeper realization of what needs to be weeded out of my consciousness.

I invite those reading to grab a cup of tea & sit with me to dialogue about life & what going on.

So the eclipse happened a week ago now. My feed was filled with All The Big Things that folks Spirit Guides have told them to do. Train for a marathon. Open the Business. Write the Book. Mine? The meditation that morning was not the expected dancing on the mountaintop, talking to the guides, deep spiritual awakening download of my To Do List. It was a gentle “Find your weekly and daily routines like laundry. Pay attention to the mundane. KISS – Keep it simple sweetheart. Do the little subtle things like sweeping, its all about repetition.” I agreed to follow that, thinking this was going to be a cakewalk. It crossed my mind that laundry seemed so out of context since that is one household task I generally pretty regular at so why mention that? Shrug it off as random.

Ha! I might have slightly smug at how easy I got off from the Universe for the eclipse that was supposed to be life changing. Or so I thought.

Later in the day, an orthodontist appointment went really well even though the dentist disagreed with my action plan; she trusted I had done the homework and made a decision based on my needs. Wow. Afterwards, I was delighted by my new doctor and didn’t really think anything of it when she was showing me her simple muscle testing although I was super stoked about her goal of getting me so that I trusted my intuition 100% of the time rather than 90%. Both of these are HUGE shifts in my patient doctor relationships from even a month ago.

Tuesday in Physical Therapy:

Me: “I’m feeling really sore form all the exercise.”
Her (checking computer) “It doesn’t seem like we’ve suggested anything real strenuous that should be causing this level of discomfort. Are you doing the 2 sets of 10 once a day?”
Me: “Well, morning and evening. And while I’m driving. And waiting for the elevator or water to boil. Or taking a computer break.”
Her: “That might be overdoing it. Let me see the intensity of your holds?” (me clenching shoulders in the hold). “Ummm yeah. You need to do only 30% of that flex. And ONLY once a day.This is meant to be subtle.”
Me: (blinking) “Subtle? I don’t do subtle”.

Wednesday, had a comparable discussion ending with “it’s just one healthy meal at a time and pretty soon the routine of it will feel so simple and you’ll feel better”. I still wasn’t noticing the language yet.

Thursday morning was an invite to Franklin Hot Springs. From an author with 18 books. To soak and chat about my writing. She’s The Real Deal, publisher and founder of a popular webzine on books and authors. And when such an invitation arises, yes I will text in late to work because I may be dense sometimes but I’m not stupid.

The drive over she mentions all the authors she has interviewed had one distinct thing in common. I pay attention to the Big Secret. “Eventually they locked themselves in the room to write.” she shares. I start to mention the bins of journals, thousands of pages just waiting to be transcribed; the partially finished books and she cuts me off to ask if I blog. There the one set up I haven’t written in for years and and and… I ramp up to tell her all the things that must be done. “Start blogging again, post weekly. Do something like write it while your are doing your laundry and put it out there.” Of course I miss the laundry reference, eager to share how I could schedule them in advance and how I have to transfer the blog to the website and… she cuts me off again “Stop! All those things are going to keep you from writing because you will be so overwhelmed with the minutia you’ll never start. Just keep it simple Sweetheart.”

I might be paying attention now. Wait, she said laundry. Like the Guides on Monday. Oh. The light starts to flicker in the bulb above my head. Yes, I am immediately thinking about word counts, morning pages and an hour of daily writing, and…. she tells me she is committed to writing fifty words a day. Stunned, I’m sure I’ve misunderstood, is that fifteen hundred or thousand? No, it is fif-ty, Five Oh, 50. It’s a small enough goal that is doable daily to make it routine.

The lightbulb is brilliantly blinding. Holy shit, I’ve been played by my Guides. Fuck.

A week later, I’m still getting angels sent by my guides with more additions to the agenda. Little things that if done in routine will build into The Big Things. I recognize their language now instead of being so obtuse. Instagram a single shot. Singing in my car since the radio doesn’t work for me and that will build my lungs. There’s more, I’m writing them down. Not as the 50 words though.

Well, I need to wrap this up because the second dryer is about done and I have to finish the laundry. Well played Universe. Well played.

Here’s a post from 2004 & the last time I was in Santa Barbara when the jacaranda’s were blooming. It brought back this sweet memory & the realization that some of this is still up in my life & that I am finally taking action on this.

There has been a recurring theme that I’ve been exploring of late ~ that of being a real __________ (fill-in the blank) and how so much judgment has kept myself and other from stepping up into what we love. That before we express whatever brings us joy should be perfected and polished till it /we are flawless. Heaven forbid we should reach out and try something to fail or not like it really or not live up to the standard of how it should be performed.

Here’s a journal entry from Santa Barbara in May after several days of driving very slow down the coast and a night at the local Hostel:

After the beach walk, stopped and strolled the pier to get a different view on
the sand sculptures and displays ~ various cups on cloths with cardboard signs that folks throw change into, then the huge peace memorial 30 feet across with flowers all around the sand sculptures. I give all my change; reflect upon the homeless who ask for change. Yeah, we need to change how we create/deal with these street philosophers, need to change how we let people
become disposable and invisible, rotting on the sidewalks. I would like some of that change.

At the end of the pier is Violet. She checks to see if I’m “one of those strict Christian ladies” and then says, “Oh, you’re a light seeker higher being like me”.(Side note: I’ve been walking and meditating and singing to myself for 3 hours on the beach collecting rocks now weighing down my sweat pant with a fistful of feathers and a bag of garbage I’ve picked up, I’m quite a sight myself) We talk about giving it all away & just going on a journey into the unknown. She says she gave it all away for her music when it came to a point of paying exorbitant rent or going for 2 weeks music seminar. I give her $2 to play a song, a flamenco love song tragedy that she sings in Spanish & translates. She playshaltingly, just learning it from the book I hold open for her.

Then she shares about a beautiful garden to meditate in before I leave. She is borderline insistent that I go. “It’s across from a church”. I follow the directions, just about ready to turn back when there it is, right across from the Unity Church I thought about looking up the night before and didn‘t. I get the message, if I don’t listen to the quiet inner voices sometimes Spirit sends an outside messenger to get my attention.

I ponder Violet’s music and that it’s not as eloquent as I think it should be if you are going to give up life and home and safety to play and learn. Shouldn’t she be able to play well or be familiar with the song before she performs it? Lots of judgment in my mind.

(light bulb over the head) I GOT IT! It’s about willingness to risk it all going forth into the unknown,
willingness to sit in the learner’s seat, perfect in the imperfection. To want to bring the beauty out so much and share the heart songs so much that to get beyond the judgment of being a beginner. I have a wonderful epiphany that just keeps expanding my heart open about being who you are no matter what or how good you are or anything, that if you listen & follow your heart that whatever happens is perfect.

Violet, the jacarandas were a gorgeous violet. Thank you master for helping me with this lesson. Thank you also for singing your heart song.

(end of journal entry)

So here was the theme once again about being real as I had started the inner dialogue again about credentials, whether I am truly qualified to be a real intuitive / healer / artist and a myriad of other limiting beliefs. What is a real musician, a real dancer a real writer, a real singer? I am! We
all are! We are all blessed to BE whomever, whatever we choose! It just doesn’t matter what others think, the act of self definition is credentials enough. Thank you Universe for the gentle reminder that we all are singers.

Soooo… my questions to my lovely readers:

What would you do if you could not fail?

Who would you be if it meant giving up your illusions of imperfection?

After sitting on this for 2 weeks, I decided to publish this. The silence is still here.

I found the stillness again this week. The place where my head can be silent; when the roar of self doubt has been squelched into the faintest of whispers.

It wasn’t the camping that did it. Nor the sunrise over the Salton Sea or the glorious Milky Way or the smell of the pine trees.

It was the rage ritual.

Surrounded in a safe environment with a trusted guide, I searched out the visceral pain deep in my soul. It had the voice of a trusted someone who told me my consciousness wasn’t good enough. It didn’t matter that she spoke these words from her own pain nor that she was busy creating her own drama of rejection, I took these words and made them real. Like the wine that leaves a residue when swirled before a taste, these words coated everything in my life. I had allowed them to define my very essence.

Which is why I found myself deep in the forest (literally and metaphorically) screaming at the top of my lungs. It was a primal scream, bouncing off the mountains and echoing back into my face, reverberating my pain for all to witness. Sobbing so hard I thought I would barf; a fleeting thought the sheriff would soon arrive for a welfare check. There was much, much more, a purging of my shattered soul, letting it all out to make room for my Truth to resurface.

The Question was asked. “Who Are You, Kat?” The answers proclaimed so loudly the trees shook, the hawk screamed and the woodpecker stopped to listen, all witnessing my intensity. There were many proclamations of power, the most memorable include:

“I AM THE TWINKLING PIXIE FAIRY”

“I AM THE FUCKING WOO WOO GIRL, DEAL WITH IT”

And my favorite:

“YOU DON’T GET TO TAKE AWAY MY SPARKLE, DAMMIT!” spoken with a rabid ferocity that is the very antithesis of the words.

Seeing them here in caps & bold can’t convey the raw power I felt nor the absolute knowingness of reclaiming my true essence. I sit and ponder them now, not sure that I will ever publish this post.

The actual ritual ended with 3 Ohm’s, ringing out over the land.

Later on, rocking in the dirt, a song I learned bubbled up.

I am the light

I am the light

I am the light of this world.

And I shine

And I shine

And I shine so bright.

It has been 5 days since that ritual and I have a sense of space within my body. The voice of limitations is quiet and there is a feeling of expectancy, like moving into a new home and getting a chance to decorate from scratch. Some beloved possessions are still here but the uncomfortable stained chair is gone, making room for something better. I have the emptiness within that is ready to be redefined.

When I show up ordinary, it is pink & bumpy & raw. I dance with my shadow at the ocean’s edge. My head is exploding unable to keep a lid on it all. Crooked teeth in my radiant smile, unguarded & unself-conscious, mouth agape with the filter off, sharing the pain, the brilliance, the baffling amazement of life itself. There is beauty in the bumps, knots & even the green slime of uncensored emotion. I am a beautiful mess.

Woke up this at 5 a.m. this morning humming “Patti Digh is Coming to Town” (to the tune of Bruce Springsteen singing about Santa Claus). Worried that I’ve been doing it “wrong” & it is only 10 days away from the workshop that she is presenting & how I wished I had worked with one of her books for 37 Days before she got here. Eventually the brain wakes up & realize she’ll be here in March not February. Woo hoo! 39 days before she arrives!

Started again with the book “Creative is a Verb”. What I am committing to publicly: to show up for myself creatively & play at least one hour a day. Since I have 39 days, I am giving myself 2 free days since we are moving between now & then.

I’m not committing to posting it online daily, but I might. I’ll tweet my accountability. I’m not committing to it being pretty, sellable, or fit for public consumption. Any form of tangible output works, could be earrings or writing or collage or whatever arts supplies I haven’t packed yet.

I’m just committing to show up for the 8-year old artist that needs permission to play. That eight-year-old girl got sat in the corner until she did all 100 sets of her times tables. Over & over again. As an adult I still feel that it is more important or responsible or grown up or whatever to do bookkeeping over crafting. Taxes and 1099’s will pay the bills not stamping forks. I’m still punishing that dear Kathy for wanting to play when she has work to do. Enough.